EIGHT: I Need A Fucking Break

The answer is studying.

Lots and lots of studying.

I groan and throw my head back as soon as I hear the words, "Let's start with the essay you never turned into me." And not in the good way.

I came in half-expecting him to bend me over a table again, but after an hour and a half, I'm still sprawled on the floor, my legs out to the side and my laptop and notes in front of me. He spends the droning, endless minutes pacing behind me, asking me if I've remembered to consider and include such and such, and then snickering when I sigh in defeat, realizing that I've completely forgot about such and such, and honestly don't really care about such and such because I hate deconstructionism. Something about it just puts me to sleep.

But for the most part, Harlan sits behind me, flipping through a book on philosophy and remaining a resource for my few questions.

But before I hit the two-hour mark, and after too many "wrong's" voiced from Harlan behind me, I tear off my blue-light glasses and toss them to the side.

"I need a fucking break," I huff, standing up.

"You haven't finished," he says, closing his book and looking up at me. God, he looks sexy just lounging like that: legs parted, one arm slung over the side of the couch, body smelling like clean linen and old books. "This paper was due two weeks ago."

"I've been working for two hours!" I argue.

"Not quite," he says, glancing down at his watch.

"Okay, well, maybe I don't care because this whole thing is stupid. You cant just sit behind me and say 'wrong,'" I imitate his deep voice for emphasis, prompting a scoff from Harlan, "every time I try to complete a thought and not give me a single reason to give a fuck about deconstructionism."

He looks at me as if I've just insulted his mother. "Why should I have to give you a reason? If you'd done the reading, you’d have figured out why you should 'give a fuck about deconstructionism.'"

"Well I couldn't finish the reading because it put me to sleep!" I admit without a shred of apology. "Forgive me if I think that imagery and allusion and, and other literary elements," I stutter "give a text meaning. This is fucking stupid. I can't fathom how you expect me to get through a single article about this crap."

"I don't expect you to get through a single article about this crap, because I'm starting to doubt that you have the capacity for patience," he argues, raising his voice and standing to his feet. "You love analysing texts. You love picking apart allusion and imagery to find meaning. I've seen it in your damn papers! The fact that you don't like deconstructionism is a baffling indicator of how fucking obtuse and simple-minded you can be."

He leans down, picking up an article thumping the paper with the back of his hand. "If you had done the reading, you’d have seen that deconstruction is all about rejecting the binary. Finding meaning beyond what you learned in your freshmen poetry class," he sneers.

Okay, so I may have misunderstood deconstructionism.

He breathes heavily. We're both clearly peeved with each other, cranky and testy after nearly two hours of frustrating work. We stand there at odds with each other, watching one another closely. He is about to pounce on me when I sigh, defeated.

"I'm sorry I struggled with this topic. It's just... it's boring on the surface. I get distracted or frustrated that I'm not understanding it, and then I give up. I guess I just don't have a capacity for patience," I say.

A smirk tugs on the edge of his lips. "That's why you're here, isn't it?"

Another two hours later, I've burned through two cups coffee, an article on deconstructionism and I actually read the whole thing! And shockingly, my paper is done. I don't remember falling asleep at the living room bar (yes, he has a fucking bar in his living room,) but the next thing I know is his hand pressing on my back.

His lips are close to me, his voice plain and all-consuming in my ears. "I think it's time you go home," he says gently.

I furrow my brow, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. When I turn to look at him, he’s heading downstairs. I long for his touch. It’s gentle, almost unrecognizable, and then just as I shake myself from my sleep, it’s gone. Almost as if it'd been a dream.

"Pack up your stuff," he says. "Phone's downstairs; I'll give my driver a call."

As he descends to the lower level, I look out the window. It is nightfall already. I look around the room, taking it in once more. Now that I'm not stressed about my paper and hopelessly wracking my brain, I notice how cozy and lovely it is.

But there isn't a single picture frame, not an old ice-sweat stain on the coffee table, not a mess that he hasn't cleaned up yet.

The place is spotless, but in a way that looks as if it hasn't even been lived in.

I stand slowly, unable to keep myself from peering up the staircase off the living room that leads to the next floor. It is such a beautiful house. So elegant and luxurious, yet devoid of any memorabilia or homeliness.

Not truly thinking about what I'm doing, I take a timid step up the stairs. Then another. And then, I'm walking without considering the consequences or the breach of privacy I'm committing, peering into the darkness of the empty hallway, lined with doors on either side, the words "Ethan Hale" echoing in the back parts of my brain.

Slowly, I reach out to one of the doors, fingers landing gingerly on the cold doorknob. Silently, I turn, and then push. The hinges whisper a scream as I slowly push open the door.

Emptiness.

The room I find myself standing in is completely empty.

It’s a charming room, or it would have been at least, if it actually was lived in. The windows span nearly the whole length of the wall. There is a closed-off marble fireplace that makes for an absolutely beautiful mantle, a crystal chandelier, soft grey walls and beautiful hardwood floors. It’s a rather small room that doesn't seem to connect to a bathroom; it would be perfect for a child's room. The thought tugs at my heart, but a noise from behind me rips all ideas out of my mind and smashes them against the wall.

Harlan clears his throat.

I gasp and spin around, bracing myself for whatever mess I've gotten myself into.